December Drabbles
by Ennui Enigma
Summary: Thank you to Hades Lord of the Dead for this December Challenge: a series of prompts submitted by other participants in the challenge for 31 days and 31 short stories. Will try to stick to 100 words. Some will be longer - artistic license. Today's prompt from Wordwielder: Anew
1. Chapter 1

" _I sprang to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind paralyzed by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from the shadows of the fog. A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish be conceived than that dark form and savage face which broke upon us out of the wall of fog_."

~ The Hound of the Baskervilles by ACD.

The above is a description of the hound by Dr John Watson.

But, he wasn't always a hellish hound….

* * *

Stapleton squinted at the litter.

"How big?" He poked the largest, a coal-black pup that nipped his finger but wriggled his tail in apology. Puppy fur fanned around his throat like a lion's.

"Gigantic," the farmer shrugged. "Mother's bloodhound. Father's werewolf." He didn't care what the prickly professor thought. The heritage of the behemoth that roamed the moor was a mystery. "Mastiff?" he corrected when his customer gave a dubious frown.

"I need a large hound," Stapleton scooped up the ebony canine. "He'll do."

The fluffy pup's enormous dark eyes smiled and a pink tongue licked his new master's hand.

* * *

Prompt from cjnwriter: Something fluffy


	2. Unexpected

A/N: I recently reacquainted myself with The Adventure of the Abbey Grange and took my inspiration for the prompt from it. It is both a mystery and a romance. The short encounter I imagine below will make more sense if one is familiar with the Abbey Grange and its characters - Mary Fraser Brackenstall, her husband Sir Eustace Brackenstall, and Captain Crocker.

* * *

The blond beauty from Australia folded her hands, staring into the flames dying in the hearth. A keen observer might have noticed the tears that swam in the blue of her eyes recalling lost memories.

'Tap, tap,' a noise at the window captured her attention.

"Eustace?" she turned, confused why her husband might beckon from outside.

"No, it's not. It is I, Captain Crocker.

"Oh!" the colour from her face blanched, save for two rosy circles.

He paused, hardly daring to breathe, waiting for her response.

"…but I am glad to see you!"

His muscular frame, strong enough to harpoon a whale, melted. She opened the window for him.

~ 221B~

 _"Vox populi, vox Dei. You are acquitted, Captain Crocker. So long as the law does not find some other victim you are safe from me. Come back to this lady in a year, and may her future and yours justify us in the judgment which we have pronounced this night!_ "

~ Holmes in The Adventure of Abbey Grange, ACD

* * *

Prompt from Stutley Constable: ...it's not, but I am glad to see you.


	3. Ice

**A/N: I apologise that this is not a true drabble. Sherlock Holmes was rather verbose in this piece.**

* * *

Prompt from W. Y. Traveller: Ice

* * *

"Hurry, Watson, he is escaping!" Holmes veered sharply to cross London's wintery street.

"But the ice…" Watson nearly fell over the prostrate jumble of limbs protruding at odd angles under a deerstalker. "Holmes?"

"Unfortunately, your eyes do not deceive."

"Are you injured?"

"A systematic review of each appendage is to the negative regarding dire damage."

The doctor pulled the detective to his feet. "I suggest that you consider the conditions upon which your feet tread next time you dash after someone in the freezing cold of winter.

"You speak the truth, doctor. I shall rearrange the furniture within my brain's attic accordingly to accommodate such vital information. The solidification of hydrogen and oxygen bonds into a regularised atomic lattice lends a much polished surface upon which the reduced friction between the sole of my shoe and the ground provide insufficient resistance to counteract the forward and rearward vector forces of motion."

The bruised detective glanced around. "A pity our quarry has escaped."

Watson, still digesting the last soliloquy, smiled. "Never fear, my friend. He too has forgotten that ice is slippery. He fell just ahead and has been apprehended."

* * *

" _I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose."_

~ Holmes in A Study in Scarlet, ACD


	4. Frost

Prompt from W. Y. Traveller: Frost

* * *

"Y _ou know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles._ "

~ Holmes in The Boscombe Valley Mystery, ACD

* * *

 **The Case of the Missing Silver Sculpture**

The frosty-haired butler, with a long-suffering sigh, reiterated his story, "I saw the sculpture when I secured the place after everyone retired in bed. It was around 11 o'clock last night. I do not recall seeing it when I came down to the study at 8 o'clock this morning."

"I cannot imagine who would take such a trophy. The silver might be valuable but I treasured the memories of Silver Blaze's triumphs on the racetrack more." Lady Frost shed a tear as she rearranged the fresh roses on the sideboard.

"Why do you think I know anything?" the groundskeeper grumbled. "I saw a light through the window when I passed by early to get a head start on my duties. It was dark and the hoarfrost was thick upon the panes."

"Can you identify the figure you saw?" Holmes' questioning suddenly chilled with an unmistakeable touch of frost as he addressed the groundskeeper. "Think carefully before you answer."

"No, I couldn't even tell you if it was a man or a woman." He glared at Holmes with such frosty focus that even Jack Frost might shiver.

"If that is your final answer, then I suggest, Constable, that we begin our search for the frosted silver figurine in the garden where this here, groundskeeper, was digging."

~221B ~

"But how did you know that it was the groundskeeper?" Watson asked later that evening.

"I must thank you for the answer, Watson. As you aptly suggested after my last, ah, misstep upon the ice, I updated my brain attic on the solid phases of H2O. Those flowers Mrs Frost was arranging were freshly cut this morning and unharmed by frost. No frozen crystallisation, thick as the groundkeeper claimed, could have obscured his view through the window. He was lying."

"Brilliant!" Watson exclaimed.

"Elementary when one has all the facts at his disposal."

And, if the song had been written back in the late 1800s (instead of 1950), Watson may have been heard to hum the cheery festive tune, Frosty the Snowman.

* * *

A/N: I am definitely getting into the winter theme with recent prompts being ice and now frost.


	5. An Encounter on a Train

Prompt from mrspencil: an encounter on a train

* * *

"One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was his power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all his thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced himself that he could no longer work to advantage." The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans, ACD

* * *

 **A Memorable Encounter**

The rhythm of the locomotive rocked the two travelling companions in quiet reverie.

The pale wintry sunshine reached through the glass and softened the angular features of the detective whose eyelids hung heavy.

Watson peered over his newspaper and observed the faint twitch of his companion's fingers and flare of nostrils. "What memories has he encountered?" he wondered.

The still figure plummeted deeper, recollections twirling around the evergreen boughs. Laughter echoed down the halls. Warm tendrils from the hearth caressed his body. Cinnamon tempted his nostrils and gingerbread tingled his taste buds. A ghost of a smile skittered across his face.


	6. Smoked Glass

A/N: Most readers are familiar with the curious case of the dog that didn't bark in the night. (If not, I draw your attention to The Adventure of Silver Blaze). Have you ever heard of the case of the barking dog? Apologies to Stutley in advance regarding my very liberal interpretation of his prompt.

* * *

Prompt from Stutley Constable: Smoked glass

* * *

 **The Case of the Barking Dog**

"What momentous case merits the dangers of this toxic atmosphere?" Watson choked.

Holmes chuckled with ominous enthusiasm. "It's the case of the barking dog. Come."

The doctor plunged into the vile vapours.

"Note closely as I mix carbon disulfide with nitrous oxide." Holmes expertly swirled the enormous glass cylinder standing before him then touched the mixture's surface with a flame.

"Whoof!" An ear-splitting roar reverberated through the flat as a brilliant blue luminescence plummeted to the tube's bottom.

Watson yelped.

A satisfied smile erupted across the detective's face. "Simple, but an excellent example of chemiluminescence. All that remains is this sulphur coating on the glass. Smoked glass."

"Smoked from the inside and the outside," Watson opened the flat's windows. "It has been a most illuminating experiment, Holmes."

* * *

A/N: According to some sources, Justus von Liebig first performed this experiment in 1853 using nitrogen monoxide and carbon disulfide. His demonstration was so well received that Liebig performed it a second time. It did not go quite as expected and a minor explosion gave Queen Therese of Bavaria a small wound on her cheek. Oops.


	7. My Manic and I

**A/N: Thank you to HLotD for introducing me to an insightful and though-provoking song. There were plenty of parallels and prompts to find in the lyric's words. I recommend listening to the full song. Its haunting melody add flesh to the lyrical bones. I wish I could have done it more justice. POV Watson.**

* * *

From Hades Lord of the Dead: Listen to 'My Manic and I' by Laura Marling. Write a piece that responds to this in some way.

* * *

 _"He wants to die in a lake in Geneva_

 _The mountains can cover the shape of his nose…_

 _My nihilist, my happy man, my manic and I…"_

~My Manic and I by Laura Marling

* * *

 **He Was My Manic**

 _…and believe me to be, my dear fellow,_

 _Very sincerely yours,_

 _Sherlock Holmes._

Those were his last words. The torn pages from his notebook trembled in my fingers. I cradled his silver cigarette case. It felt cold against my palms. He was gone.

His alpine walking stick jutted out across the trail, forsaken. Bedraggled foliage fringed the raw chasm of Reichenbach Falls as I peered over the edge, in vain. Spray from below bellowed up and bejewelled my face with its roaring tears.

The gods he believed in, logic and reason, will not bring him back. My comrade lies buried under the broken waters of the Swiss waterfall. He was my manic. He was my friend.


	8. Nativity

**A/N: Bear with me. This story is just silly fun. Please suspend your logical rational thinking mind and remember, it's Christmas – miracles can happen.**

* * *

Prompt from SheWhoScrawls: Nativity

* * *

"Holmes?" Bundled against the wintry cold, the doctor hastened his step to catch up with his athletically paced companion.

"Yes, Watson, I perceive you have an inquiry of which you believe I can assist. Please, continue."

"Why is there a donkey following you?" Watson glanced behind to ensure the apparition didn't disappear. The animal in question waggled a furry ear.

"Why would a domesticated member of the horse family, Equidae, be inclined to trail me? And whatever gave you such a silly idea?" The detective shrugged his chin deeper in the recesses of his woollen scarf.

The two men were coming back from a Christmas service at the local parish.

"He appears quite similar to the one that was in the stable yard where we found the Christmas geese while investigating the case of the blue carbuncle."

"Improbable."

"Improbable but apparently not impossible."

The furry four-legged member of the Equidae family trotted up behind the detective. His whiskered chin brushed against Holmes' coat sleeve as he manoeuvred his nuzzles into the left pocket.

"Ouch!" Holmes' hands flew out of his coat pockets and he came to an abrupt standstill.

The animal shifted his head momentarily, unperturbed by this sudden outburst. He flicked his long ears and reached for Holmes' coat.

"I think he likes you," Watson commented with an amused twinkle in his eye. "In fact, he seems to have taken a decided preference between the two of us for you – or at least your coat."

"Go home. Scram!" Holmes raised his walking stick and pointed. "Go back, that way." His chin popped out from under his scarf and he steeled a grey-eyed gaze back at the placid beast of burden nibbling at his buttons.

The donkey raised his enormous chocolate orbs up at the strange man holding a lovely gnawing branch. He batted his eyelashes but never wavered. Man and beast stared with a curious intensity at each other. Neither moved a muscle, like athletic opponents studying the enemy, waiting for the first crack of weakness.

Watson unconsciously held his breath as he observed this impromptu battle of two equally stubborn wills.

Abruptly, Holmes lowered his stick; a great sigh escaped his pursed lips. "It appears I have met my match, a worthy opponent." He gave the stoic donkey a faint nod of admiration. "There are depths to you fuzzy soul that merit further study."

The donkey swivelled an ear in the direction of the detective in acknowledgement. He tapped a hoof on the cobblestone and he took hold of Holmes' coattails.

Holmes twisted round to address his newly acquired acquaintance. "I can assure you that my external covering contains no nutritional value."

"I think he wants us to follow him," Watson interjected. "See, he's tugging in the direction of Church Street."

"Hum?" He studied the beast before him. The animal twirled briskly on his hooves and whisked his tail, inviting.

The two men followed their furry companion through the dusky hues of the falling night. At last, they entered a roughly hewn barn. The dust motes floated lazily in the failing light beams streaming through the cracks in the boards. A couple cows mooed softly in the corner, munching on their hay. A chicken strutted across the aisle and squawked in annoyance as it flapped to safer heights in the barn's rafters.

"Alas, a dead end." Watson removed his muffler and peered into the recesses of the humble shelter.

His biped companion found the lantern and lit it.

"Where did our donkey go?"

He held his light high and illuminated the furthest corners. "Over there," he stepped cautiously over the straw strewn floor.

The long-eared, short-legged member of the horse family stood placidly over his manger of hay. He looked up at the detective and then down at his manger.

"He cannot be hungry? His food trough is full."

Patiently, the donkey brought his gaze to meet Holmes' and stomped a tiny hoof – a decided thump. He looked back up at the men. He blinked his long lashes.

All of a sudden, something flashed between man and donkey, a connection was made, and a spark of recognition lit up Holmes' face. In an instant, he squatted down and dug into the overflowing hay of the manger. He pulled out a leather pouch with a flourish.

Watson bent over, "What's inside?"

"Oh," the detective let out a low whistle. His chronicler edged in for a better view.

"Why it's the lost nativity set from the chapel!" He counted the twelve delicately crafted silver figurines. "The whole set is here. Father Thomas will be grateful to have them back. He was quite worried when we spoke with him today."

"Yes, it will do his heart good, I am sure, to have his prized centrepiece restored. We will need to talk with the owner's of this barn, I believe." He fingered the silver baby Jesus. "I suppose, if it turns out the theft was committed out of desperate financial measures, Father Thomas may take a more lenient view on prosecution. The return of his prized nativity set will go far to mollify him."

The donkey nodded his head approvingly and picked up a large mouthful of hay.

"A curious case, Watson." He reached out a hand and patted the beast, contentedly chewing. "Thank you for your shaggy assistance."

"But how did he know you could help? How did he choose you?" Watson scratched his head. "Perhaps he recognised you from the last case with the blue carbuncle? Donkeys have excellent memories, I'm told."

"Perhaps," murmured the detective. He gave the animal another searching gaze. "Perhaps he just recognised a kindred spirit."

"One ass to the other." Watson grinned back.

"I suppose it takes one to know one." Holmes shrugged good-naturedly. "Then again, what does that say about your choice of companions, dear fellow?"


	9. A Snowy Day in a London Park

Prompt from mrspencil: a snowy day in a London park

* * *

The detective, whose excessive leanness made his six-foot plus height seem considerably taller (1), stood utterly still. His hawk-like nose and sharp eyes penetrated the snowy scene spread before him. His coattails snapped vigorously, the biting wind whipping them into a frenzy.

Hyde Park was the public drawing room of London. Spectacles sufficient to temper his keen analytical mind took shape through the softly falling snow. Children bundled in woollen garb till only their noses poked through shouted merrily and threw snowballs. Their silvery shouts mixed with the anxious calls of their nursemaids. Rich and poor alike, thronged the banks of the river - the plebeian in his drab roughly hewn layers; and the aristocrat, in her fine furs and scarlet regalia. In spite of the winter weather, an interminable throng of horses and carriages sloshed through the frozen mire toward misty church towers looming like battlements of turreted castles rising from the frosty forest.

Snowflakes danced and twirled on their downward trajectory, landing on Holmes' human statue. Gradually his features softened into a meditative expression. The thinking machine shifted his focus to the delicate crystalline ice creations landing on his hand.

"Curious," he murmured to himself, recalling his earlier studies. "It is only due to the imperfections in the crystals that light diffuses across the spectrum and a snowflake looks white." He shifted his view to the colourful sea of jostling humans flowing around him. "Without the imperfections, snowflakes would be invisible."

Just then, Watson, carrying his medical bag, sidled up to the detective. "Holmes, what are you doing just standing in this snowstorm? You'll catch cold. Come, let's go home and warm up." He snugged his scarf tighter around his neck.

Yes, let's go home, my old friend. I was simply contemplating the imperfections of the world. What colour they bring."

(1) quote from A Study in Scarlet, ACD


	10. 10&11 Out of Time with Books

**A/N: Oh dear, I am out of time! In attempt to redeem these moments, I have taken the liberty of combing two prompts into one chapter. I hope my prompters do not feel slighted. Both are lovely.**

* * *

Prompt from W. Y. Traveller: Books

Prompt from BookRookie12: We're out of time.

* * *

Holmes lounged about the flat, ruminating with the aid of his pipe. In the corner at his desk, Watson sat penning their latest adventure. "Holmes, I do wish you would at least open the window. The atmosphere is decidedly thick." He massaged his forehead. " I fear a headache."

"And I wish you make your account an educational exercise of the science of detection rather than that whimsical prose you are prone."

"You must admit my 'whimsical prose' has increased the number of interesting cases though," the doctor retorted.

I don't deny you have biographical skill, my dear fellow. I just wish you'd confine yourself to fact and less fiction."

Suddenly, a very flustered Mrs Hudson burst through door. "I'm so sorry, Mr Holmes," she fluttered. "The lady was most insistent."

A plump woman with auburn hair and a fashionable violet dress pressed into our sitting room. Holmes stood abruptly with a resigned air, ears keen to hear whether such an insistent client might present an engaging case. "I am Mr Holmes," he nodded for the woman to sit in his consulting chair.

"Oh no, I'm looking for a Dr Watson, author of those charming little mysteries in The Strand." She remained standing and glanced anxiously around the room.

The detective's features registered his shock only momentarily and were quickly replaced with a bemused smile. "Why, the doctor is here, I believe." He gestured toward the corner where said doctor was rapidly rising to meet the visitor.

"Doctor Watson, my name is Amanda McKittrick Ross, a pleasure to meet you."

"Equally," he replied and indicated the chair nearest the fire. "Do sit down Ms Ross. How can I assist you? If it is a medical malady, I may suggest we meet at my surgery…"

"No, Dr Watson! I am not ill. It is your skill with the pen that has brought me here."

"Oh?"

"You see, Dr Watson, I too am a writer, along with the likes of Defoe, Eliot, and Dickens. I have just finished my latest novel and have come to ask you to read my manuscript. I would be grateful for someone with your talents and fame to bestow an endorsement."

"Well, I suppose I could read it over," Watson said hesitantly.

Before the doctor could continue, the aspiring author grasped his hand. "Thank you! I'm sure you will enjoy reading the novel as much as I did writing it." She glanced at the clock as she waved adieu to Holmes (he quickly wiped the smile off his face). "Oh, I must dash. I'm out of time. I'll be back in a few days to collect my manuscript." She picked up her coat and plunked the bundle of papers in Watson's arms.

An hour later…

Holmes let out a groan, "I cannot complain about your literary romantics having now read such utter frippery. She is sadly misinformed how literature works."

"My headache had taken a decided turn for the worse. In spite of the Ms Ross' confidence, I have read better books." Watson sighed. "She defines purple prose. Her metaphors are circumlocutory and impenetrable."

In unison, both men abruptly raised their heads and glanced at the mantle's timepiece. "Alas, we're out of time. I leave you, Watson, to the pleasures of reading the rest of Amanda Ross' manuscript. Shall we break from our literary travails and avail ourselves of the dinner Mrs Hudson has brought up?"

"Certainly, dinner will be a welcome change."

Somehow, Ms Amanda McKittrick Ross' manuscript was never fully scrutinised by the doctor. He always found a more pressing case. Ms Ross didn't seem to mind though. She published all the same.

~o~

" _She tried hard to keep herself a stranger to her poor old father's slight income by the use of the finest production of steel, whose blunt edge eyed the reely covering with marked greed, and offered its sharp dart to faultless fabrics of flaxen fineness._ " ~ Amanda McKittrick Ros in Delina Delaney.

The above quote is thought to mean that the she (Delina) worked as a seamstress in order to avoid using her father's money.


	11. A Hole

**A/N: KnightFury's dualistic imagination of prompts has infected me! I confess I wrote the first part completely before realising my mistake. Part one is a parody of the children's nursery song, "There's a Hole in my Bucket". The earliest version of this song was found in a collection of German songs Bergliederbüchlein from the 1700s. Part two is inspired by Jeremy Brett's portrayal of Sherlock Holmes in Granda's Musgrave Ritual.**

* * *

 **Part One: Hole in Pocket**

There's a hole in my pocket, Ms Hudson, Ms Hudson,

There's a hole in my pocket, Ms Hudson, a hole.

~221b~

So mend it dear doctor, dear doctor, dear doctor,

So mend it dear doctor, dear doctor, mend it.

With what should I mend it, Ms Hudson, Ms Hudson,

With what should I mend it, Ms Hudson, with what?

~221b~

With thread, dear doctor, dear doctor, dear doctor,

With thread, dear doctor, dear doctor, with thread.

But the thread is too thin, Ms Hudson, Ms Hudson,

The thread is too thin, Ms Hudson, too thin.

~221b~

So darn it dear doctor, dear doctor, dear doctor,

So darn it dear doctor, dear doctor, darn it!

With what should I darn it, Ms Hudson, Ms Hudson,

With what should I darn it, Ms Hudson, with what?

~221b~

With a yarn, dear doctor, dear doctor, dear doctor,

With a yarn, dear doctor, dear doctor, a yarn.

But the yarn is too short, Ms Hudson, Ms Hudson,

The yarn is too short, Ms Hudson, too short.

~221b~

So, combine it, dear doctor, dear doctor, dear doctor,

So combine it dear doctor, dear doctor, combine it!

With what shall I combine it, Ms Hudson, Ms Hudson,

With what shall I combine it, Ms Hudson, with what?

~221b~

Use the tie, dear doctor, dear doctor, dear doctor,

Use the tie, dear doctor, dear doctor, the tie.

But the tie is too hard, Ms Hudson, Ms Hudson,

The tie is too hard, Ms Hudson, too hard.

~221b~

So learn it, dear doctor, dear doctor, dear doctor,

So learn it dear doctor, dear doctor, learn it.

With what should I learn it, Ms Hudson, Ms Hudson,

With what should I learn it, Ms Hudson, with what?

~221b~

With notebook, dear doctor, dear doctor, dear doctor,

With notebook, dear doctor, dear doctor, notebook.

On what should I practice, Ms Hudson, Ms Hudson,

On what should I practice, Ms Hudson, on what?

~221b~

Use the pocket dear doctor, dear doctor, dear doctor,

Use the pocket, dear doctor, dear doctor, the pocket!

There's a hole in my pocket, Ms Hudson, Ms Hudson,

There's a hole in my pocket, Ms Hudson, a hole.

* * *

 **Part Two: Hole in Ice**

"I perceive you are intent upon a winter adventure," Holmes remarked as his bundled companion entered the room.

"Was it the double-layered clothing, the woollen socks, or the ice saw which gave me away?" Watson grinned.

"Well, if you're not satisfied with the short version, I could give you a detailed narrative starting with you're your unfortunate results at the races." Holmes sniffed.

"Not necessary. As you correctly guessed…"

"… I never guess, Watson. I logically conclude based on my analysis of all the facts."

"Yes, of course," the doctor replied. "As I was saying, I'm going ice fishing. Care to join?"

"Ice fishing?" Holmes quirked an eyebrow.

"The ice is thick enough. Four inches."

Holmes shivered. "Courtesy compels me to offer gratitude. I am honoured that you would consider my company palatable. However, the opportunity to totter across the perilous glassy water, chisel out a hole, and then wait with hook and line for dinner to swim along is not appealing. The thought of hypothermic conditions without the consolation of my pipe is alarming."

"I'll take that as a no." Watson good-naturedly gathered up the rest of his supplies.

"Good luck, old fellow," the detective murmured. "Best with your hole in the ice. I shall wait here, wholly warm."

* * *

Prompt from KnightFury: A hole in the ice


	12. Mary's Heart

Prompt from Winter Winks 221: Mary's heart

* * *

 _"She was blonde young lady, small, dainty, well gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste. Her face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual and sympathetic."_

Watson's description of Mary Watson (née Morstan) in Sign of Four, ACD

* * *

"Dearest, you've been staring into the fireplace for hours. Join me for a stroll? The new snow has given London a fresh perspective." She squatted down and placed her hands on his. Her singularly large blue eyes swam with sympathy.

"I miss him." Watson halted. Words were inadequate.

"He was a good man," Mary grasped his hands, "He was a good friend."

"Very much," A sad smile creased his face.

"Those we loved continue to live in our memories. Your adventures with Holmes are more than enough to fill a lifetime. Come, join me down memory-lane in the snowy streets," she gently tugged him up.

"Mary! What would I do without you? You have the heart of an angel."


	13. Fruitcakes

**A/N: Apparently it is difficult to determine when the fruitcake became the misaligned holiday dessert. Some think the ridicule started with The Tonight Show hosted by Johnny Carson in the '60s. Possibly it began earlier when mail-order fruitcakes became available in 1913. A good fruitcake requires a bread base, alcohol, and fruits and/or nuts. It must be dense and moist and delicious.**

* * *

Prompt from cjnwriter: Holmes passes off a fruitcake on Lestrade

* * *

Watson hung up his coat. "The expression on Lestrade's face was priceless!"

The detective smiled. "Yes, he was surprised. Yet, it was the only solution to fit all the facts. I'm afraid drink ruined the baker. He took to smuggling jewels inside his pastries to finance his habit."

"A nut case," Watson commented. "He couldn't tell the difference between his rolls."

Holmes' gaze landed on Mrs Hudson's fruitcake. "A nutty bread baker full of fruity spice and brandy… we've passed off a real fruitcake to Lestrade."

"Fair point," Watson laughed. "We should also pass off a more traditional version of the holiday bread to Lestrade once he finishes booking the first one. One more palatable."


	14. The Dead Silver Miner

**A/N: I felt this case deserved more time. I'm not entirely happy with it. Perhaps one day I'll have time to go back and expand upon it.**

* * *

Prompt from sirensbane: One of the stories Watson will never publish.

* * *

 _"Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross, there is a travel-worn and battered tin despatch-box with my name, John H. Watson, M.D., Late Indian Army, painted upon the lid. It is crammed with papers, nearly all of which are records of cases to illustrate the curious problems which Mr. Sherlock Holmes had at various times to examine."_

The Sussex Vampire, ACD

* * *

 **The Case of the Dead Silver Miner**

"I've never seen anything like it," the pathologist gestured toward his findings on the corpse of Mr Burrows. Holmes ignored him. Instead, he began an examination of the victim's toenails.

"Poison?" Watson glanced over the pathologist's preliminary report.

"Circumstances point to murder. The needle mark on the man's neck is consistent with an injected poison. There are so many poisons to consider and so far every test I've run have turned up negative. Yet, his death was not accidental." The pathologist shrugged.

Holmes finished abruptly, "poison by injection." He pointed out the skin break on Mr Burrow's neck.

"Um, yes," the pathologist cleared his throat, "I believe we were just discussing such."

"Recently back from the southwest of America and judging by the state of his nails, a prospector for precious metals, most likely silver given his geographical location."

The pathologist's eyes widened as he checked Mr Burrows files, "but how did you know?"

"Don't ask," Watson quickly intercepted Holmes' lecture. "I believe my partner's interest in your case is clear. We'll take it."

As was his custom while engaged on a case, Holmes was hardly seen in the ensuing weeks. It was a snowy evening when Watson came back and found the man hovering over his chemicals; toxic fumes filling their flat.

The doctor set his medical bag down. "Well?" He waited.

"Murder," the detective's eyes narrowed.

"I confess I am wholly in the dark as to how you reached so spectacular a conclusion," Watson settled into his chair.

Like an artist revealing his masterpiece, Holmes outlined the case. "It was simple once I discovered that the victim, Mr Burrows, had recently broken off a partnership with John Quicksilver. They had a disagreement regarding their silver mine wherein Mr Burrows abruptly returned to England and Quicksilver disappeared."

"Your guess about the victim's mining in the southwest of America was correct," Watson recalled.

Holmes stopped and frowned. "How many times must I remind you, Watson, I never guess. My analysis of the victim's origin and profession was based on a careful examination of the victim's skin tones, global weather patterns, and soil analysis from samples under his toenails." He sniffed.

"Yes, of course," Watson apologised. "Please continue," he reached for pen and paper to continue note taking.

With a shake to rearrange his ruffled ego, Holmes resumed. "I shall not bore you with the steps I took, but suffice it that eventually I located John Quicksilver's residence. Several small leather satchels, now empty, were found. Analysis of the dirt residue matched the same as that under the victim's nails. With the help of a contact in America, I confirmed the sacks previously contained silver obtained from Burrow and Quicksilver's mine."

"So, Quicksilver must has double-crossed his partner and stolen all the profits."

"Or, just as likely, Burrows took off with all the silver to England and Quicksilver followed him," Holmes countered. "Curiously, in addition to the leather sacks, I found two reptiles in Quicksilver's room, stout lizards with stumpy legs and tails as wide as their bellies. Their studded reptilian scales were an alarming black and orange."

"Let me guess…" Watson caught himself and help up a hand, "I mean, conclude with confidence based on scientific literature. The lizards were _Heloderma suspectum_ , also known as Gila monsters. A species of venomous lizard native to that region where Burrow and Quicksilver had their mine."

"You are correct, Watson," the detective's voice was unusually baffled. "How did you know?"

Dr George Goodfellow of Tombstone has written several articles on his own scientific research with the species in _Scientific America_. Most recently he wrote a report on his personal experience with a bite from one of his captive lizards. He was laid up in bed for five days and described the pain as 'molten lava coursing through my veins'

"I fear I shall never get your depths, doctor."

Watson continued," the Gila monster produces a neurotoxin in its salivary glands. One bite, although not fatal, causes excruciating pain, swelling, and weakness in its victim. It is often regarded as the most painful venom of any vertebrate."

Holmes looked admiringly at his friend. "My dear fellow! I am in your debt. You have provided the final puzzle piece. The clue to the poison John Quicksilver used to kill his partner. With his knowledge and access to these reptiles, he must have extracted the perfect poison from these lizards, essentially undetectable by any laboratory."

Watson smiled. "A most remarkable case."

"Yes, Watson, a memorable case and one that I owe you a debt of gratitude for providing the final chapter. Thank you."


	15. A Game of Chess

Prompt from Wordwielder: Chess

* * *

 **A Game of Chess**

The snow was falling soft. The sparkling white blanket seemed to have put a damper on the usual criminal activity.

Care for a game of chess?" Holmes indicated the board, pieces standing at attention.

"Another time," Watson sighed, "I'm afraid an epidemic of measles is taking all my energies."

"Chess, brother dear?" Holmes sat across from his brother at the Diogene's Club.

"Regretfully, duty compels me to decline," Mycroft replied. "I shall miss the opportunity to stimulate my mental faculties."

"Chess?!" Lestrade arched an eyebrow at the detective. "What would the other Yarders say? I fear I should focus on this investigation of the hiccupping turtle."

"But Mr Holmes, I have a mince-pie, fruitcake, and five dozen cookies to finish baking. While I am flattered by your offer of a game of chess, I simply do not have the time." Mrs Hudson rolled out a piecrust.

"Ah, a worthy foe and an admirable game. Alas, I must finish this treatise on the mathematical predictions of the Landau-Ginzburg theory of phase transitions. Professor Moriarty peered over his spectacles. "I shall resume this game of ours another time," he dismissed Holmes ominously.

"Why, sure, I would like to play a game of chess," young Wiggins answered gleefully. "But, I don't know how to play. Will you teach me?"

"That I will. And do it willingly, my lad." Holmes sat across from his young opponent. "Now there are 16 pieces, one king, one queen, two rooks, two knights, two bishops, and eight pawns. The goal is to reach a checkmate whereby the opposing king is captured. It's vital to anticipate your opponent's intentions and engineer such moves to attack and capture your rival's pieces."


	16. A Conversation with Death

Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead: A conversation with Death.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes and Death were no strangers. On multiple occasions, the two brushed paths. The dark shadows between life and death were an ill-defined murky river. The two rarely acknowledged their encounters; and, if they did, it was short.

"Hello, Death," Holmes might say as he lay pale and motionless in a fever-coma.

"Hi, Holmes," Death would reply cordially. "It looks like Dr Watson's medicines are working. I'll see you later."

At Reichenbach Falls, Death was a little more optimistic. He waved at Moriarty and Holmes as they passed him on the muddy path to the precipice - two geniuses in one day. He looked forward to the stimulating conversations. He was put out for several weeks when only Moriarty showed up at dinner in Hades.

There was really only one time when Death and Holmes argued. It occurred quite unexpectedly during a routine examination of Mr Garrideb's collections.

"You shall not have him!" Holmes gazed at Death, his eyes contracted and hardened into two menacing points of steel."

"But its his time," Death argued. He held up Watson's life contract.

"I don't care about your contract. You simply will not have him." Holmes' eyes burned red-hot poker. He glanced down at the limp form of his companion cradled in his arms. Then, never wavering in his mind against Death, the detective crashed the butt of his pistol over Evan's head.

Death had seen enough people to know when he was beat. The young man under Holmes' pistol butt, although not fatally wounded today, would be joining sooner than Holmes or Watson. He sighed. "It is only a superficial wound. He will live. Good bye, Holmes." A dark cloud lifted from the room.

* * *

" _…my friend's wiry arms were round me, and he was leading me to a chair._

 _"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"_

 _It was worth a wound — it was worth many wounds — to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation_."

The Three Garridebs, ACD


	17. Fencing

Prompt from SheWhoScrawls: Fencing

* * *

 _"Bar fencing and boxing I had few athletic tastes, and then my line of study was quite distinct from that of the other fellows..._

 _~Holmes in The Gloria Scott, ACD_

* * *

The musical clang of steel against steel filled the arena and a flickering glint reflected off the rapidly darting blades. It was a fair match. Holmes eyes narrowed, his lips set firmly, his expression impenetrable. His blade dipped low then flicked upward. His opponent stepped back and met his upcoming blade. Sabres crashed.

"Why don't you give up before you start bleeding," his opponent's voice was low, challenging

"Blood is merely a bit of proteinacous fluid mixed with oxygen-laden haemoglobin. I can spare a drop if it means spearing this blade through your heart."

The other man roared and lunged forward, his blade thrust in front.

Holmes stepped aside. His foe went hurtling past him. "I dare say your heart is important but don't lose your brain over it." The slender young university student resumed his defensive posture. His grey eyes glinted in anticipation.

~o~

"Holmes, why did you choose boxing and fencing in University rather than hunting or archery?" Watson and Holmes were enjoying a rare moment in 221B, relaxing in front of the hearth.

"Well, Watson, at the time, it seemed logical. Swords and fists do not run out of bullets and arrows."


	18. Away in a Manger

**A/N: My intrepid little donkey that can outstare Holmes has returned once again. His initial début was in chapter 8, titled Nativity.**

* * *

Prompt from Wordwielder: Away in a manger

* * *

"Holmes, did you notice the donkey on the kerb outside?" Watson leaned in closer for a view of the furry beast of burden oscillating contentedly by the lamppost.

"He's been there," Holmes looked over at the mantle's clock, "thirty-seven minutes."

"Maybe he wants to consult you again?"

"I daresay that Mrs Hudson would not appreciate our visitor. She continues to look pointedly at the bullet marks in the wallpaper when she dusts." Holmes gave a slight grimace.

"Perhaps we should go out to him? He's persistent. And, being a donkey, cannot send up his calling card."

At this pronouncement, the donkey outside gave a swivel of his ear and let out a loud bray.

"Oh!" Watson startled.

"I ascertain that our furry friend has found his calling card, Watson." The languid detective roused himself from his repose and agilely manoeuvred into his outerwear. "Come, duty calls."

Watson hastily dressed for the winter weather. His footsteps echoed after the detective's rapid descent down the stairs.

Outside, snow fell softly and sparkled in the lamplight. It muted the usual city raucous and coated the grime with a blanket of white. A triangle of snow capped the donkey's head. He raised his whiskers in greeting as the two men stepped off their front stoop. Abruptly, he tapped his forefoot on the kerb.

"Curious, he looks as if he's summoning someone," Watson cocked his head.

"Oscillations, in my experience, signal an affaire de coeur," Holmes said ominously.

Just then, a small band of colourfully bundled carollers crowded around. "Away in a manger…" the lyrics of the familiar tune rang out sweet and clear on the silent snowy streets of London.

Holmes' eyes closed in reflection as the melody opened dusty doors in his memory attic.

Watson, to this day, swears the enigmatic donkey winked.


	19. Carol Singing

**A/N: Prompt seemed to tie in perfectly with my last chapter. I decided to make it a continuation. Therefore, enjoy carollers with a donkey in tow.**

* * *

Prompt from mrspencil: Carol singing

* * *

Watson was momentarily taken aback. "Holmes," he whispered, while the lyrical notes of Away in A Manger faded on the hushed night air, "the donkey winked at us."

"Impossible, Watson. Perhaps you've had too much brandy."

"Hm, no. I'm sure he's having fun with us." He gave the placid animal a scrutinising look.

The long-eared donkey stared back, unconcerned.

The leader of the carollers came over to the two gentlemen. "A Happy Christmas to you both!"

"Why, John Horner!" Watson recalled, "A pleasure to see you this year under improved circumstances."

"It is indeed, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson," Horner shook each man's hand. "I can't thank you enough for all you did for me in that matter of the stolen blue carbuncle."

A fuzzy head intruded on the trio.

"It appears we are summoned back to carolling," Horner noted, as if it was perfectly natural to follow a donkey around the city singing. "Will you honour us by choosing a favourite?"

"Silent Night?" Watson suggested.

Horner signalled his band. The words 'Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright… ' filled the air.

After the last strands of music faded away, Mrs Hudson bustled down carrying cookies for the merry singers. The furriest of the carollers received carrots though. He trotted off a very merry donkey.

Holmes and Watson watched him go. Just as he rounded the corner, the donkey glanced back and gave his listeners a decided flick of his eyelash.

"See, he winked," Watson turned to his friend.

"Hm, yes, Watson. My analysis of the impossible may need revising."


	20. Gold

**A/N: I went a bit alternative on this prompt. I hope it makes sense.**

* * *

Prompt from Book girl fan: Modern AU

* * *

 **Gold**

It sparkled under the light with a warm radiance that captivated the viewer.

"Gorgeous!"

"It must have been expensive."

"A modern design. I wonder what jeweller crafted it?"

Mary smiled as her friends admired her wedding band. The ring was expertly crafted. The bevelled edge work against the simple curve was elegant.

Even Holmes praised her ring. (She suspected he'd also helped Watson in his choice). "Gold, abbreviation Au, atomic number 79. It is a rare metal that is malleable, one of the least reactive of metals, and solid in standard conditions. It is also resistant to most acids." He glanced up. "It suits you, Mary."

She sparkled under the light with a warm radiance that captivated the viewer.


	21. Christmas Pudding

Prompt from Domina Temporis: Christmas pudding

* * *

Slender fingers discoloured from years of chemical experiments carefully measured 350 grams of South African stoned raisins and added them to the steaming cauldron. The taste of tangy spice radiated around Holmes' head. Three ounces of rum, half an orange, 4 eggs, a teaspoon of cinnamon… the chemist, turned detective, now cook, focused on the task with the same intensity he'd used for measuring sulphuric acid. While he stirred he consulted Mary Kettilby's _A Collection of above Three Hundred Receipts in Cookery, Physick and Surgery: for the use of all good wives, tender mothers, and careful nurses_. With a final satisfied sigh, he wrapped the concoction in a cloth and set it to finish steaming.

Watson arrived home late. His nose detected the festive odours long before entering. "I smell Christmas." He sniffed appreciatory as the sweet tendrils of citrus, nutmeg, ginger, and cloves tickled his olfactory senses.

Holmes lay sprawled in a languid heap on the sofa. A flick of his eyelashes acknowledged Watson's arrival.

"Difficult case?"

"Decidedly so."

The biographer sat down and looked over at his exhausted friend.

Holmes waved a hand weakly. I was merely conducting research on the plausible explosive properties of pastries. Apparently Mrs Hudson had prior arrangements for her pudding and pies. He sighed and rubbed his temples. "A lengthy discussion ensued when she discovered my research had resulted in the demise of her cooking creations."

Watson gave his weary friend an empathetic nod.

"We at last came to a satisfactory agreement. In return for keeping my chemical equipment in the flat, I would replace her Christmas pudding and garner a basket of apples." He glanced over at the steaming basin. I was able to procure a suitable number of apples with the help of Wiggins. Regrettably there were no Christmas puddings available that met Mrs Hudson's standards. Instead, she supplied me with her receipt book. I have spent the rest of the day, with the help of the Irregulars, tracking down the ingredients, measuring, mixing, and cooking."

A tendril of sweet spice drifted past Watson from the steaming pudding.

"Your cooking appears to be settling nicely."

Holmes curled deeper into his dressing gown. A fleeting ghost of a smile skittered across his face. "A remarkable day, Watson. But one I hope never to repeat."

The good doctor smiled as the languid heap on the sofa melted into a resting rhythm of deep breathing.

* * *

 **A/N: While doing research for this piece, I ran into photographs of Mrs Kettilby's Receipt book. I just had to include the full title. It made me smile.**


	22. Mary & Holmes on a Case

Prompt from sirensbane: Watson can't go on a case, and Mary goes instead.

* * *

"It'll be the bay, the one with the white forelock," Mrs Mary Watson pointed in the direction of the racehorses.

"Surely, the tall white one, with his muscular hind legs is the strongest," Holmes countered.

Mary grinned. The starting shot rang out and the sound of pounding hooves churning turf eclipsed the conversation.

"There he is!" she pointed to the squirrel-faced man in the sport's jacket dashing opposite the crowd of spectators.

The two sprinted in pursuit.

"Holmes, stop," she panted. "We'll never catch him at this rate."

"Keep trying," he hissed with an impatient grimace.

With a sigh, Mary stood her ground and took out a revolver. She aimed. "At least duck," she shouted to his retreating back.

The detective instinctually veered sideways - just in time.

A shot rang out.

The pub's wooden sign tumbled sideways into the bucket under the gutter, which tipped over spilling water on the maid sweeping below. She screamed and swung her broom just as their quarry swerved to avoid the ruckus. He slipped on the slick wet cobblestones and tumbled headlong. The bucket crashed down on his head.

Holmes caught up seconds later to apprehend the now soggy thief.

Back at the raceway, Mary gave Holmes a smile as she collected her winnings.

"Where did you learn to shoot like that?" the detective asked Mary with new admiration.

"I grew up in India. One learns a few things I suppose," she shrugged. With a laugh, she continued, "I also learned how to tell the difference between a well-built racing horse and an overfed thoroughbred."

"Touché." Holmes nodded good-naturedly. "You have been an invaluable help on this case. Thank you."

~o~

"I'm sorry I couldn't accompany you earlier," Watson sipped a brandy. "The recent influx of croup is keeping me tied up at the surgery."

"Your wife proved an invaluable assistant instead." Holmes let loose another reflective puff from his pipe. "She is a remarkable woman."

Watson's expression softened. He smiled. "Yes, I am a lucky man."

As wreaths of smoke swirled around the detective, he nodded. "Undoubtedly." His lips quirked upward ever so slightly, "she has an eye for a good man - and, a good horse."


	23. A Lost Shopper

**A/N: The paradox of choice. So many options came to mind when I read this prompt. I really couldn't choose. I had no intention of writing our character as a child though..**.

* * *

Prompt from Wordwielder: A lost shopper

* * *

The small boy in a threadbare jacket with patches on the elbows, clung to his cap, his mouth agape, as he wandered the snowy city streets. A sweets shop on his left made his mouth water. The toymakers store displayed a marvellous model engine chugging round and round on its track in the front window. Wooden animals from the circus sprouted from the carriage cars. He left a nose smudge and two grimy handprints on the glass when he moved onward. Next, his eyes opened wide at the shimmering holiday outfits displayed at the tailors.

"John H Watson!" a flustered woman with a ponytailed girl in tow called out. "I've been looking all over for you. Hold onto your sister's hand and don't let go. I don't need you getting lost again."

"Yes, Mother," John meekly took his sister's hand. "I didn't mean to leave you." He hung his head.

That night, safely ensconced under the warm covers with snow forming a thick white blanket outside, John dreamed of adventures. The carved jungle animals came to life in his dream. Tigers chased slender gazelles and an elephant roared. He road a train across the savannah with the wind tugging at his hair toward a shining city made of sweets. Men dressed in gleaming black boots and women wore dazzling gowns. The melody of 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' echoed in the background. The curly blond head turned over in his sleep and a smile formed on his lips. He would never be lost again. He would only be charting new territory.


	24. Santa & a Cookie Thief

Prompt from W. Y. Traveller: Santa Clause is coming to town.

* * *

Holmes crouched low. Like a bloodhound on the scent of a rabbit, he kept his face close to the tracks and studied them intently with his magnifying lens. "Curious," he muttered to the snow.

The detective and his friend, Watson, had been called to investigate a series of unexplained holiday pastry disappearances. "Why would anyone go through the trouble of stealing biscuits, mince pies, scones, and cookies, while leaving behind the jewels and valuables? It doesn't make sense." Watson squatted next to a distraught little girl, bravely wiping her tears away.

"I made them for St Nicholas," she explained. "How will I ever manage to make more when today's Christmas Eve?"

House after house, it was a similar story. Sweetbreads made for Santa were disappearing. No one saw another person. No other valuables were stolen.

"Here's a brown fibre, perhaps a strand of hair from the perpetuator?"

"Excellent, Watson." Holmes examined it carefully. "I refer you to my monograph on the identification of mammalian bristling. Notice the relatively thick straight shaft of this keratinized protein filament with a distinctive taper at the distal tip. It is a guard hair…"

"And clearly not human," Watson interjected.

"Quite so," Holmes frowned.

"The grey and tan shading and length would lend toward a larger animal with a need to camouflage in order to escape detection by a predator. A prey animal such as a gazelle."

"Given the season, perhaps a reindeer?" Watson grinned.

Holmes sighed, his intense nature not quite catching the holiday spirit. "I fear that both conjectures are incorrect. However, based on the pattern of thefts, I believe a night's watch at the Tribble Estate would be revealing."

Watson shivered at the thought of a wintery waiting game in subzero temperatures. "I suppose that would be advantageous…" His enthusiasm did not quite match the detective's.

"Think of the children, Watson. It is a small sacrifice in order to catch the monster that is stealing St Nick's Christmas treats and ruining the holiday for them."

"Of course." The doctor rubbed his shoulder unconsciously. Suddenly he perked up. "Perhaps we don't have to sit the night out in the cold after all. What if we captured the thief before nightfall?"

That would be the ideal situation, my dear fellow, but how do you propose such a feat?"

"Tell me, Holmes, would a four-legged beast about 4 ½ feet tall with cloven hooves and a brown woolly coat, match the evidence?"

"Certainly."

"Would a donkey possibly be our thief?" Watson continued.

Holmes thought a second. "It is within the realm of possibility. Why?"

Watson pointed to the corner of the cottage. A familiar donkey, muzzle laden with biscuit crumbs, stood contently watching them.

"It appears our enigmatic furry friend has acquired a taste for Christmas baking." Holmes smiled.

Watson sighed in relief. Tonight he could sleep in his own warm bed while visions of sugarplums danced in his head. Santa Claus was coming to town after all.

~o~

Compliments of the Season to You and Yours!


	25. Up in Flames

**A/N: Historically, there are a lot of things that go up in flames during the December writing challenge – Christmas trees, Christmas pudding, decorations, pies, 221B… I decide to give this prompt a little twist therefore.**

* * *

Prompt from Winter Winks 221: Up in Flames

* * *

The unmistakable reverberations of a pistol shot echoed from upstairs. "Holmes!" Watson dashed upstairs fearing the worst.

The prone form of Holmes lay motionless upon the sofa.

"Holmes!" Watson cried, alarmed.

To his relief, a faint monotone grumbled from the cushions, " _life is commonplace; the papers are sterile; audacity and romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world_ (1)."

Watson coughed in the smoky atmosphere. He stumbled over to the window and threw up the sash.

"Haven't we spoken about your penchant for bullet-pock embellishments? Mrs Hudson was quite clear. Patriotic or not, she wants no further holes in her flat."

"I'm bored."

"Clearly," the long-suffering doctor gave his flatmate a wan smile.

"How about your violin?"

The long thin fingers dismissed the idea.

"Why not review your old case files?"

"Done."

"A stroll? I'm sure Mrs Hudson can keep supper warm."

"I do not exercise for leisure."

"Well, you could try tidying up the flat." Watson looked pointedly over at the stack of unopened letters jack-knifed to the wooden mantelpiece.

Holmes moaned and sank deeper into the cushions.

Watson sighed and settled into his chair to read. Abruptly, he lowered the book. His ears perked up at the familiar tread of Inspector Lestrade upon the stairs.

A sudden energy seized the dormant detective, his keen mind instantly alert. "A case, at last." He sprang up. His incredible stupor instantly went up in flames. He was ablaze with life.

(1) The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge, ACD.


	26. Christmas at the Thames

**A/N: I just had a few sips of angst-tea over at W.Y. Traveller's place.**

* * *

Prompt from W. Y. Traveller: Christmas at the Thames

* * *

It was a dark moonless night, stars choked out by a blanket of clouds. It was bitterly cold. The breath of the two gentlemen standing along the pebbly bank on the Thames condensed into personal miniature clouds. The tall slender man crossed his hands behind his back. The other form was shorter and sturdier but his arms hung limply at his sides, a tremble in his fingertips. The crisp wind tugged at the tall man's coattails. It knifed the ache in the trembling man's shoulder. The river flowed unceasingly, eddies whirled round the debris, small tufts of white foam tumbled rebelliously through the turbulent black waters. The pale body of the deceased young lady lay decomposing in a heap upon the riverbank.

"We're too late," Holmes frowned.

"It all seems so senseless," Watson frowned. "She's the third victim that's washed up from the Thames this Christmas."

"No explanation can justify such violence. The killer will be brought to pay for his crimes." Holmes eye's narrowed, his chin set firmly. "Come, Watson, Christmas can wait. The game is afoot!"

~o~

" _What is the meaning of it, Watson?" said Holmes solemnly as he laid down the paper. "What object is served by this circle of misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from an answer as ever._

The Adventure of the Cardboard Box, ACD


	27. Scotland Yard

Prompt from BookRookie12: "Why are we like this? No, seriously, why is it *always* like this?"

* * *

The policeman grabbed his hat and rushed out of the office.

"Busy day?" Constable John called out.

"Yes, off to investigate the missing peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked."

The constable shrugged and tugged at his ears, "must be losing my hearing."

Just then a tall, white-faced, flaxen man nearly ran him over.

"Pardon, constable," Gregson barely looked up from his notes with 'Little Bo-Peep' and 'lost sheep' scribbled across. "Just popping off to the countryside. Know anything about wagging sheep?"

Constable John shook his head.

"Ah well, see you later then." Gregson trotted down the road briskly.

"I want to make a missing person's report. It's my wife. I can't seem to keep her." The man at the front desk was quite insistent. "Name's Peter – Peter Pumpkin-eater."

The constable wrote up the missing person's report dutifully with just a small quirk of the eyebrow.

"Pumpkin scone?" Peter offered a bite to the busy officer.

"Thank you but no," he dismissed the pumpkin treat with a friendly wave. He turned around to glance out the window when a crash outside occurred. "Oh dear, Humpty Dumpty has fallen again." He sent off a quick dispatch to all the king's horses and all the king's men.

Bradstreet wandered down the hallway of the Yard. He reviewed his report on the case of Jack and Jill who tumbled down the hill. His eyes suddenly opened wide when an itsy bitsy spider dropped down on a thread from the ceiling. "Yikes," he ducked and scurried forward. As he rushed along the hallway, he nearly tripped over Little Jack Horner sitting in a corner. "Christmas pie?! What are you doing here?"

"Mmm, nothing," Jack Horner mumbled with his mouth full of pie.

"Finish your pie then wash your hands and report to my office," Bradstreet waggled a warning finger at the lad.

A flurry outside caught his attention before either reached his office though. "My cupboard is bare. No bone for my dog," Old Mother Hubbard and her dog both started howling just as Hickory dickory dock, the mouse, ran up the clock. Bradstreet sighed, 'pop goes the weasel'.

Suddenly, the Yard's alarm bells started tolling. "London bridges falling down," a hue and a cry arose. The Yarders streamed out the office in tumbling droves.

Just as uniforms came tumbling out onto the street, sirens wailing, Inspector Lestrade returned from his investigation into the crooked man who walked a crooked mile. He stared, taking in the chaos before him. "Why are we like this? No, seriously, why is it *always* like this?" He raised his arms in dismay. His words disappeared into the thunder of scrambling police feet upon the cobblestones.


	28. The Ballerina

**A/N: The Nutcracker was first performed at the Mariinsky Theatre in St. Petersburg, Russia, on 18 December 1892.**

* * *

Prompt from Winter Winks 221: The case of the Disappearing Ballerina

* * *

Her slender supple features curved in perfect symmetry as she pirouetted on ribbon-toed slippers. A faint smile brightened the delicate features of her face. Her large blue eyes and smooth ivory skin were accented on each side by rosy cheeks. Golden locks, pulled neatly back in a bun, shimmered under the flickering lights above.

"Beautiful," murmured Watson. The ballerina's pale blue dress sparkled. The musical notes of Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker twinkled merrily around the flat.

"Mm, yes," Holmes held the music box gently in his slender fingers. His eyes looked beyond the dancing figure into dreams as yet unseen.

"It was a lovely gift from Miss Katerina's family. They were extremely pleased with your invaluable service in finding their daughter."

"It was a simple matter once it was determined that she was wearing the real jewels in her performance on-stage and that one of the dancers was Jim Incognito who had a long history of jewel thefts." Holmes smiled modestly.

"And yet, it was not a simple matter rescuing the poor Ms Katerina from the thugs who kidnapped her," Watson commented. He shook his head at the memory of the underground basement tunnels in the theatre, the scuffle, the unfortunate pistol shot."

Holmes glanced over at his friend. "Merely a scratch."

Watson raised one eyebrow. "The bullet nearly severed your femoral artery. You were sick with delirium for a week and limped for months. Hardly my definition of a scratch."

"Trifles, doctor." A shadow dimmed his features momentarily betraying his light-hearted reply though.

Watson sniffed. "Let us not argue over trifles then this Christmas season. I am thankful that the case of the disappearing ballerina did not become the case of the disappearing detective."

"A worthy toast, old fellow!" Holmes closed the music box with the twirling ballerina and poured drinks for the both of them.


	29. Hijinks

**A/N: Pure silliness. Read with caution.**

* * *

Prompt from Wordwielder: Hijinks

* * *

 _Hijinks (noun, plural): boisterous or rambunctious carryings-on, carefree antics or horseplay ~_ Merriam Webster online dictionary

Festive fripperies decked the mantelpiece of 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson's chef-d'oeuvres adorned the dining table and filled the flat with appropriately scrumptious aromas.

The Inspector took a sip of his whisky and with a contented sigh turned to the detective wreathing himself in boughs of smoke. "Any words of wisdom to share as the year comes to a close?"

Holmes paused. With a festive twinkle he turned to the man, "Inspector, you are well aware that I have oft criticised the Yard on their deficiencies this year. It is not in my nature to overlook mistakes, my own or others, and I rely on my comrade," he glanced significantly at Watson, "to smooth over the, er, disturbance that my words churn up. It is with hard-earned experience that I pass this axiom on to you today: Do not criticise another until you have walked a mile in their shoes."

The Inspector nodded, reflecting on the truth of the words.

But Holmes wasn't finished and with a growing smile held up a hand. "That way, when you criticise said person, you will be a mile away, and you will have their shoes."

Both Watson and Lestrade nearly lost their drinks.

With a new respect for this alternate Holmes, Lestrade cleared his throat. "While we're in the mood, I have a question."

"Do enlighten us with said inquiry."

"Tell me why I never see elephants hiding up in trees?"

"Outside the obvious fact that elephants are found only in the London zoo?"

"Yes."

Watson shook his head. "I cannot imagine. Do tell, Inspector."

"Because they are really good at it."

Silence.

"I suppose, it is my turn to share a riddle," Watson poured himself a dash of his favourite brandy. "Tell me, what falls down but is never injured." He glanced pointedly at his friend. "It's not you, Holmes."

Mrs Hudson bustled in to gather the tea dishes. "Why, rain, of course. Simple."

All three men stared. "Er," Watson cleared his throat, "That is correct, Mrs Hudson. And, would you care to join our holiday hijinks?"

"Thank you kindly, gentlemen, but I must get packed. I'm travelling tonight to see family. As a cook though, I will give you men a tip: justice is a dish best served cold."

Holmes gave the landlady an appreciative nod while Lestrade and Watson stared, uncomprehending.

"Oh?" Watson at last managed.

"Because," Mrs Hudson patiently explained, "just-ice served warm would be just-water." The landlady grinned as she exited the room.

A stillness settled on the room as the men deepened their repose, enjoying the warmth from the hearth. The doctor, stirred, "I, for one, am thankful for this season to remember the friends and family that warm our lives." He raised a glass.

"To friends," the three men murmured in agreement.

"Without you, Holmes," Watson chuckled, "I would be Holmeless."

"A touch! A distinct touch! Holmes laughed. "You are developing an unexpected pun-y humour, Watson. One I must learn to guard against."

The three men basked in the mirth of the season.

~o~

 _"A touch! A distinct touch!" cried Holmes. "You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must learn to guard myself._

Holmes in The Valley of Fear, ACD


	30. Anew

A/N: HAPPY NEW YEAR! Many thanks to all those who have sent such encouraging reviews and comments this year.

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Prompt from Wordwielder: Anew

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The haunting notes of Auld Lang Syne quavered across the frosty night air of 1893. Under Holmes' skilful ministrations, the violin's high notes danced, twinkling with the stars; and the low notes dived, disappearing into black chasms. His woollen layers and tattered overcoat could not disguise his gaunt frame and the haunted shadows around his eyes. Fingertips stained with dirt and time poked through his gloves, lovingly caressing the strings and guiding the bow.

"Look, Mother!" a young girl exclaimed as she stopped to listen in wonder to the lonely violinist standing in the village square. Her mother halted with her daughter from their hurried errands. The music tripped into her memory and pulled out laughter, tea, and hugs. She held her girl tight. A tear rolled down her cheek.

A carpenter plodded into the village with his four-legged beast of burden laden with firewood. The worries of the world etched themselves into the lines upon his leathered face. His shoulders drooped with the weight of long years of hard labour. Both man and beast paused to appreciate the musical soliloquy. Pictures of a baby cooing at his feet and a woman who smelled of fresh bread and summer shimmered before his eyes. "Margaret," he whispered. He rolled his shoulders back and strode with renewed purpose onward. The furry donkey glanced back at the stranger murmuring in the language of music about days of yore and hopes of more.

"To happier days ahead and reunions with our lost loved one, old pal," the stranger whispered hoarsely. The clock struck midnight, snatching up his words and summoning in 1894. But, the donkey heard. He blinked and flicked a fuzzy long-eared goodbye.

Happy New Year!

To happy days anew with Sherlock Holmes and continued mystery in the year to come.


End file.
